


Sherlocked

by ADaughterOfColdharbour



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-04 03:18:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1763927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADaughterOfColdharbour/pseuds/ADaughterOfColdharbour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was a man, she was the woman. Two people sitting together in a shadowed room, both thinking deeply but both thinking something completely different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlocked

The couple sat in the dark, sweeping room in total silence ... One sentence into this tale, and I’ve already lied to you. They weren’t in silence; they were accompanied by the soft sounds of a fire and violin. Oh drat, I did it twice. They weren’t strictly a couple - not in the way we would deduce when hearing that word. Here the term is used loosely; by ‘couple’ it is meant as a group of two people, whom just so happen to be a man and a woman, intricately connected in a romantic way, but in no way tied to each other. I’ve confused you, haven’t I ? Let me start over.

A quiet pair sat in a dark, sweeping room, with no noise to disturb them, excluding the flickering of the fire beside them, and the soft plucking of the strings on the violin which the man held. The other half of the aforementioned pair was a woman. The woman. The woman that brought a nation to its knees. For a time, she was probably the single most important woman in the man’s life. For a time, the only woman that had ever bested him.

The woman’s name was Irene Adler. A classily beautiful woman, with sweeping dark hair and grey-blue eyes that could see into your soul and shatter it. She loved power; more specifically, holding power over others. Thus, her career as a dominatrix. She loved herself above anyone else, and was confident in showing it. She was powerful, yes, in the bedroom and elsewhere. But with that power she made many enemies, and Irene’s only protection was her mobile phone, containing photos, videos, recordings, and other assorted files from her escapades in her profession, which could be used to her advantage to ensure her safety. Thus, her protection. But one day, when seemingly all was lost and Miss Adler needed to pass for dead, she sent her protection to a man. A man she knew needed and wanted the phone. A man that would do the right thing with it.

Her protection protected, Irene could breathe. For a moment. But eventually she needed her protection back, and had to reveal to two men that she was still alive. One was John Watson, the best friend of the second man to whom Irene would reveal her secret. She told them, but they refused to give her protection back. So she decided to take matters into her own hands. Alone, she crept into the man’s flat, and slept peacefully in his bed until he returned. He found her there, and she explained to him her need for her protection. A little bit of arguing, cleverness, witty remarks and a kiss on the cheek later, we find ourselves where we began. The man and the woman, alone in the dark.

There. Now you are caught up with what you need to know of Irene Adler. Coming back to the story, she sat in that room with a man. The man, if you will. The man that changed her life, even saved it. That mysterious, clever, and beautiful man she barely knew, but trusted above all others. Sherlock Holmes. How can one possibly begin to explain the enigma that is Mr Sherlock Holmes ? You cant, really. You’ll just have to take my word for it, that he is the most clever man you will ever have the pleasure to meet. He’s able to look at you once, and deduce from what he sees, that which you are. He observes, while others merely see. He was taller than most men, but so lean that he looks even taller. Striking cheekbones and rose petal lips, beneath dark curls settling themselves against his forehead. Those curls know better than to fall in his eyes too much. If Miss Adler has beautiful eyes, then Sherlock’s are absolutely stunning. He is one of those lucky people to have bright blue eyes, with green and grey underlining. You cant help but stare.

In that sombre room, his genius mind was rushing through the facts of a new mystery that had arisen from information from Irene’s phone - but that isn’t important right now. What’s important is that he was lost in thought, staying that way for hours, trying to unravel the code.

Sitting there, comfortably in Sherlock’s dressing gown, Irene was lost in thought, too. But her moderately clever mind was rushing over something different. She was staring at him, trying to memorize his small details and the way he moved. At first, she looked at his face. Grazing over those eyes over and over, longing to reach out and run her fingers through his curls. She moved from studying his mouth to his neck and shoulders, and remarked silently at how unhealthily slim he really was. Irene watched the way he gripped his violin, fiercely with his agitation at this new puzzle to unravel, yet gently because the instrument was important to him. Her gaze settled for awhile on his hands, and wondered that, if she held up her hand to his, palm to palm, how much larger his hand would be. Irene delicately bit her lower lip as she continued to scrutinize his hands, focusing particularly on his fingers as he continued to pluck at his violin. Earlier in the evening, before he’d picked up his violin, she’d seen him tapping those fingers against the arm of his chair, as he muttered incoherently under his breath about codes. The continuous and quick taptaptap had bothered her at first, making her want to grab his shoulders and shake him, begging him to please, talk to her, since she was finally alone with him. Or maybe talking wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind. Anyway, she was fascinated by those hands, this woman whom had seen so much of so many people. She idly wondered what those hands would look like when he was angry -clenched into a irritated fist, perhaps ?- or when he was aroused - she so wanted to see those hands shake. Shaking herself delicately, Irene finally moved her gaze from his hands. Her eyes moved up his arms, back to his neck and his slightly open shirt, raising an eyebrow at the exposed skin. She found herself wondering what his reaction would be if she sat in front of him and tore his shirt wide open, ripping off the buttons and running her nails down his chest. She smiled as she imagined the look of surprise on his face, and revelled in the conjured up image. Irene chuckled quietly, and watched as Sherlock didn’t even raise his eyes to look at her. He’d forgotten she was even there. The laugh died in her throat, but she still continued to gaze at him, refusing to start the conversation, but willing him to remember her existence.

“Coventry,” he said suddenly. Irene’s eyes shot to his, and saw he was looking at her, and actually seeing her. She replied at once, with a quick “I’ve never been.” Sherlock looked puzzled, as if he didn’t realize who she was. She faltered slightly, but would never let it show. “Is it nice?”

Sherlock looked her up and down quickly once, and when he spoke, the excitement was gone from his voice. “Where’s John?”

What? “He went out … A couple of hours ago,” Irene reminded him gently, surprise colouring her voice. There was some amusement inside her though, remembering that John had let her know that Sherlock could be silent for hours, not realizing the world continued to go on around him when he wasn’t paying attention.

“I was just talking to him …” Sherlock replied, looking somewhat mystified as his gaze wandered around the room, as if he didn’t believe her when that John was gone.

Irene let her amusement show, a grin playing at her lips. “He said you do that,” she informed him, looking him up and down with new fascination. She wanted - no, needed to figure this man out. Sherlock, ignoring her once again, sighed and leaned back into his chair. Sensing another bout of silence coming on, Irene decided to get him talking. “What’s Coventry got to do with anything?”

Sherlock looked away, thinking once more as he took a breath. “It’s a story …” he began, avoiding her eyes. “Probably not true. In the second world war, the allies knew that Coventry was going to get bombed, because they’d broken the German code. But they didn’t want the Germans to know that they’d broken the code, so they let it happen anyway,” he finished in the same rush he always had the habit of using, as if the words that which he was saying were obvious to everyone. During the small speech, Irene’s eyes stayed fixed on his, fascinated by every word he spoke, no matter what it was. One part of her mind was listening to him, really, but she couldn’t help but get lost in those eyes, and couldn’t help what came out of her mouth when Sherlock finished speaking.

“Have you ever had anyone?”

She was always open and honest, of course, but she didn’t want to scare him off before the fun began. Besides, she was curious. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed slightly in confusion as he looked over at her. Did he really not understand what she meant? “Sorry?” He asked, his tone and posture indicating legitimate confusion.

In the back of her mind, Irene was incredibly entertained. His ignorance of some things were truly amazing. She couldn’t help but smile as she explained. “And when I say had, I’m being indelicate.” No longer looking confused, merely defensive, Sherlock replied immediately. “I don’t understand.”

“I’ll be delicate then,” Irene said. She moved off of her chair, and kneeled in front of Sherlock, gazing up into those eyes and taking hold of his hand. His expression gave nothing away, and she took that as encouragement. “Let’s have dinner,” she suggested, holding his gaze.

“Why?” He asked immediately, watching her warily.

“We might be hungry,” she explained quickly, the question burning in her eyes. This time he’ll say yes, she always tells herself when she asks. He never does.

“I’m not,” Sherlock countered, raising an eyebrow.

“Good,” she shot back, smiling.

Sherlock dropped his gaze from her eyes down to her hand, where it still rested atop his. Slowly, he turned his hand over, gently caressing her inner wrist. “Why would I want to have dinner, if I wasn’t hungry ?” He asked, slowly and quietly. Her stomach fluttered lightly as he responded to her touch, and dropped her gaze down to their hands. Her heart accelerated, but she willed herself to stop. She was acting like a fool. Irene looked back up to his face, and saw he was watching her, leaning in towards her as he spoke. Automatically, she leaned in as well. Inch by desperate inch, they moved close enough together so they barely had to whisper to be heard.

“Ah, Mr Holmes,” Irene began, leaning in closer. “If it was the end of the world, if this was the very last night … Would you have dinner with me?” Her voice grew quite soft by the end of her question, and she gazed into those bright eyes of his, waiting for an answer. She could feel her heart thrumming away, as well as the soft stroke of Sherlock’s fingers on her wrist.

Feeling his breath wash across her face, Irene leaned forward those last few inches, angling her face upwards to meet his mouth with hers. She could feel that Sherlock was rather rigid, not letting himself relax. But still, he leaned forward with her, and as Irene’s eyes fell shut -

“Sherlock!”

The call came from somewhere down below the flat, the voice belonging to one Mrs Hudson. Irene’s eyes widened, as she whispered “Too late,” and pulled away.


End file.
